Into the Shadow (12 page)

‘‘Me, too. I’ve got a buffet to supervise.’’ Karen stood, too.

‘‘Who knows, Miss Karen?’’ Dika sounded positively perky. ‘‘If this Mr. Wilder isn’t your lover, then perhaps the demon is dead.’’

Karen ran her tongue over the inside of her lip. Sometimes, unexpectedly, the taste of his blood filled her mouth, and she saw with his eyes, felt with his heart . . . anguish, darkness, violence, and a deep, desperate, clawing longing. ‘‘No. He is most definitely not dead. He’s out there somewhere . . . waiting.’’

As the two women went inside, the stranger stepped out of the shrubbery, dusted himself off, and waited as still as a statue.

Karen left first to supervise her buffet.

Dika worked for a half hour; then she left also, locking the doors behind her.

He climbed the fence. Once within the privacy of the patio, he knelt by the door, picked the lock, and let himself inside.

The cottage smelled of disinfectant. Feminine touches decorated the room. Karen Sonnet had made this place her own.

But she’d been ready to abandon it at the first sign of trouble.

Her bag and backpack were still tossed on the bed.

He started toward them.

She should have run while she could.

Finally Phil Chronies appeared in the door of his study. ‘‘Here it is, Mr. Sonnet. I found it. I just sort of misplaced it. Forgot about it, really. You get so much mail it’s hard to keep track of it all.’’ He sidled up and handed Jackson the detective’s report.

Jackson looked at the flat manila envelope. ‘‘It’s been opened.’’

‘‘Yeah, those mailmen up here in Montana are real nosy.’’ Phil fidgeted like a kid who needed to go to the bathroom.

‘‘Get out.’’

Phil fled.

‘‘Don’t slam—’’

Phil slammed the door behind him.

‘‘—the door!’’ The little prick did it every damned time.

Chronies wasn’t good for anything. After hearing his story about how Karen had been screwing around with some Himalayan biker, how Phil had struggled to keep the job going by himself, and how Karen had left him to die, Jackson had felt bad about the missing arm, not to mention that he’d wanted to avoid a lawsuit, so he’d made sure all the hospitalization and rehab were paid for one hundred percent. That was six months Phil had been out of commission.

Then, when he came back, Jackson had given him a job in his main office in town, answering questions from the field. It made sense; Phil was a goddamned construction assistant. He should have known the business, or so Jackson had thought.

But Phil had been lousy, ignorant of the most basic matters, unable to get materials where they should be when they should be, and his misplaced arrogance had resulted in Jackson’s loss of one of his best site supervisors.

Two, if he counted Karen.

So, to minimize the damage Phil could do, Jackson had stuck him in employee relations and told his office manager to keep him busy. After three months Nancy had begged Jackson to get rid of Phil before they had a sexual-harassment suit on their hands.

So Jackson had brought him to his home office, and told him to do the filing.

The dumbshit couldn’t even do that.

What had Karen said before she walked out?

Enjoy your time with Phil, and try to make yourself believe he’s telling you the truth.

It was as though she’d cursed Jackson, because these last two years had been a misery. As far as he could tell, Phil was allergic to work, any kind of work. He made up stupid excuses for his incompetence. Every time Jackson yelled, Phil brought up the story about how Karen had been screwing a biker and left him to be crushed by a rockfall. And every time the guy started in on the story about Karen and the rockfall, it changed a little.

Jackson shouldn’t have listened to him in the first place. He shouldn’t have told Karen the truth about her mother. He should have kept his promise to Abigail and raised Karen like his own daughter instead of like a convenient employee . . .
Crap.
For the first time in his life he felt guilty.

He was going to have to dump Phil. He’d give him a nice retirement package, threaten him with death and worse if he told secrets about Jackson’s personal business, and out the door he’d go.

Because no one had the right to know what was happening with Karen except Jackson Sonnet.

The envelope opened easily—preopened envelopes did that—and he pulled out the report.

Karen had spent almost a year in Europe doing just what she said she was going to do— not one whole hellofa lot of anything.

Sure she’d never be able to stand it, Jackson had kept waiting for her to come crawling home.

But she didn’t. The detective agency had sent him photos of her at the Vienna opera, traveling by rail, eating at an open market, lolling on beaches with people he’d never seen before.

Apparently she made friends easily. Just like her mother.

But unlike her mother, she wasn’t sleeping with anyone. As far as the detective could discover, Karen was as pure as the driven snow.

That made Jackson wonder . . . was that story she’d told him the truth?
Had
she really been kidnapped by a warlord and held hostage?

Had some son of a bitch hurt his little girl? Had Jackson failed her so miserably?

The paper crinkled in Jackson’s fist.

Last year, when she’d finally returned to the States, Jackson had waited to see her walk through the door, looking for a job.

She went to a spa in Arizona instead, stayed there as a guest for a week, then got a job as an events coordinator.

When he read that report, Jackson had almost frothed at the mouth. All those years of college, of training, of learning to survive in the toughest conditions, gone to waste in a pansy-ass spa and hotel taking care of parties for people who lounged around in hot tubs and got massages. And got pedicures, for shit’s sake.

According to this latest report, she was still there. They liked her a lot. Every progress report was filled with praise. She’d had a couple of raises. And there were pictures.

Jackson sank down in his chair and stared at the photo in his hand.

She looked good. Not like Abigail; if she’d looked like Abigail maybe he could have forgiven her. Instead she looked like a female version of her father, that goddamned Indian Nighthorse. She’d fixed herself up. Gotten a tan. Let her hair grow and lightened it. Wore makeup and dresses . . .

She was an awfully pretty woman, and she didn’t deserve what he’d given her.

He should have kept his promise to Abigail.

If he had, he wouldn’t now be a pathetic old man spying on the girl he’d loved like a daughter.

Phil soundlessly shut the door to Jackson’s office.

He’d learned that if he banged it hard enough, it popped back open and he could watch the old fart. It helped to know Sonnet’s mood, and it helped to know when to look busy. The old fart threw a tizzy when he caught Phil checking e-mail or playing computer solitaire, and he had really been ugly about that ‘‘lost’’ detective’s report. But Phil couldn’t help it.

Someone
wanted to know all about Karen Sonnet, and
someone
was willing to pay well for the information. And Phil Chronies was pleased as hell to give up that self-righteous bitch to anyone with a cashier’s check.

The phone rang.

He smiled unpleasantly as he grabbed his copy of the detective’s report and picked up the receiver.

Someone
was right on time.

Karen oversaw the event with a keen eye, and that kept her so busy that she scarcely thought about Rick Wilder and his eerie resemblance to Warlord. Although . . . she never quite relaxed.

When she finally did see him, he was hefting himself out of the swimming pool. She watched, transfixed, as he crimped his toes on the edge, thrust his wet hair out of his eyes, and laughed down at two of Burstrom’s older lady employees.

He looked so normal. Not like a warlord or her evil nemesis, but like an American guy dressed in green swimming trunks and a dripping beige T-shirt . . . a really ripped American guy.

She thought she should take the opportunity to study his body, see if she recognized any identifying marks, but it appeared she wasn’t the only woman with that idea in mind, and he quickly disappeared under the barrage of four newly minted Burstrom female engineers.

Which made Karen feel sort of funny, like an old girlfriend cast aside.

By the time she got to bed that night she’d been going nonstop for twenty hours, and she slept like a rock, without a single premonition or dream.

The schedule the next morning brought a volleyball tournament and tennis matches, and the afternoon included a wine tasting, and by the time the Burstrom Technologies’ first sit-down dinner rolled around, Karen was ready for a moment alone. She saw the dinner through to the dessert course, then left matters in the hands of their very capable caterers and wandered out to her favorite place on the grounds, the Japanese garden. The night was clear—of course, it was the Arizona desert—and the full moon and discreet lighting made the path easy to follow. The white gravel crunched beneath her sandals, and beside the path a tiny brook trickled over polished stones, headed for the edge of the cliff, where it would artfully tumble down in a froth of waterfall. She rounded the corner, descended the stairs cut into the stone—and stopped cold.

The granite bench was occupied. She started to back away, but he turned his head, and the white moonlight shone on his face.

Rick Wilder.

Everything she’d said to Dika about being strong and self-reliant vanished in a flash of alarm.

She lifted one foot, ready to flee.

He stood at once. ‘‘Sorry. Sorry! Is this your private garden? I thought I’d excuse myself and not go back, because I knew Chisholm was going to present the annual employee awards. Since I’m not an employee, I frankly don’t care. Shall I leave you alone?’’

She hesitated.

But he sounded so normal, so all-around-guy -like . . . and she couldn’t say he’d followed her, since she’d arrived after him. No one knew where she was, but she had her pager, and it wasn’t like she couldn’t yell and summon the security guards that patrolled the grounds every moment of every night.

‘‘This garden is for the use of the guests, and if you don’t mind my company, I’d love to take a moment to rest.’’ She found an artistically placed boulder in the middle of the raked rock garden, far away from him, seated herself, and groaned. ‘‘I have been waiting to sit down for the last six hours.’’

‘‘I noticed that you run from morning to night.’’

He noticed? He’d watched her? ‘‘Not always, ’’ she said cautiously. ‘‘Just when we have a large party.’’

‘‘How often does that happen?’’ He smiled a friendly, open smile and sat back down on the bench where he’d been before.

‘‘It depends on the season, but in the winter, every ten days or so. People are crazy to get out of the snow, so they come down here and pretend it’s July in Chicago.’’

‘‘Tough job.’’

‘‘Not really. It’s great to watch them. They’re almost children, they’re so happy.’’

Without any seeming worry, he faced her, the moonlight on his face. ‘‘So this is perfect for you. How long have you been an events coordinator?’’

‘‘A year.’’

‘‘What did you do before that?’’

‘‘Before that I wandered around Europe for a year. And before that’’—she scrutinized him—‘‘I was a construction project manager for adventure hotels.’’

‘‘You are kidding.’’ If he was faking it he was good, because she couldn’t see a single blink that betrayed anything other than casual getting-to-know-you conversation. ‘‘Okay, first— a year in Europe?’’

‘‘I like Europe.’’

‘‘So do I—but a
year
?’’

‘‘I got a Eurail pass and went where my whims took me. I ate at great restaurants, I made a lot of friends, I saw a bunch of museums. ’’ Again she watched him closely. ‘‘I avoided only one thing.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘The European mountains. I didn’t want to see the Alps and the Pyrenees. If I never see a mountain again, it will be too soon.’’

‘‘You hate ’em.’’

‘‘I do.’’ She had never meant anything so much in her life.

‘‘You know what I like best about Europe? Gelato. I could make my way through Italy eating gelato.’’

She was cheering up by the moment. He wasn’t interested in discovering what made her tick. He wanted to talk about himself. This guy really was just . . . a guy. ‘‘The Gelato Tour of Europe. That sounds magnificent.’’

‘‘Someday I’ll write a book.’’ He looked back toward the ballroom. ‘‘The food here is excellent.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘And the wines are perfect. Did you match the wines with the meals, or did Mrs. Burstrom?’’

‘‘I made the recommendations,’’ she said modestly, but all the while she was thinking how much she loved a man with a keen appreciation for fine wine and food. He seemed oh so civilized.

‘‘You’re the woman with the schedule. What happens after the awards are given and the dinner is over?’’

‘‘It’s free time, so I suppose everyone will make a break for one of the bars.’’

‘‘That sounds about right.’’ He yawned and stood. ‘‘I’m going to turn in. I flew here directly from Sweden, and my body clock’s still off. May I walk you inside?’’

‘‘Yes. Thanks. You may.’’ Because she
was
strong and self-reliant, and able to stroll side by side with Rick Wilder without fear.

‘‘What’s the plan for tomorrow night?’’ He headed toward the hotel.

‘‘Mrs. Burstrom doesn’t like me to talk about her plans.’’ She climbed the stairs ahead of him, feeling self-conscious, hoping her knee-length dress covered her thighs. ‘‘She likes the element of surprise, and of course I respect her wishes.’’

‘‘Mrs. Burstrom is quite the character, isn’t she? She’s got Burstrom wound around her little finger.’’

‘‘Just the way it should be.’’ Karen grinned.

They got to the top. He stepped up beside her. ‘‘What’s that? Toward the top of the canyon?’’

She halted and looked, too. A light came on and moved, then stopped and went out. ‘‘It must be campers, although they’re not supposed to be there. Or lost hikers.’’ She lifted her pager, but before she could even speak the spa’s chief of security came hurrying up the path toward them.

‘‘Do you need something, Miss Sonnet?’’ Ethan played his flashlight over Rick.

Rick blinked and brought his hand up to shield his eyes.

Warmth spread through her veins. Ethan had been watching out for her.

‘‘I’m fine, but look.’’ She pointed at the light that had moved a little closer to the spa. ‘‘You’d better send someone up there to investigate.’’

Ethan stared up at the canyon rim. ‘‘Stupid hikers,’’ he muttered. ‘‘I’ll call the sheriff. He’ll take care of it.’’ Before he flipped open his cell phone, he looked into Karen’s eyes. ‘‘Is everything all right with you?’’

‘‘Really, everything’s fine, thank you, Ethan.’’

‘‘Great. Good evening, Mr. Wilder.’’

As they walked away, Ethan stood looking up at the canyon rim, speaking forcefully to the sheriff’s dispatcher.

Rick looked back. ‘‘You really have a lot of security around here. I’ve run into someone every time I’ve been alone.’’

‘‘Have you?’’ She hid a smile.

‘‘Do you have a lot of problems with intruders? ’’

‘‘No, just the occasional lost soul. But this area is still wild. We have bobcats and hawks, and sometimes a cougar wanders through.’’

‘‘Wow. I hadn’t thought of that.’’ He peered around at the trees as if expecting an attack at any moment.

‘‘But we’re perfectly safe. They’re more afraid of us—’’

‘‘—than we are of them,’’ he finished. ‘‘Yeah, yeah, my dad used to tell me that about snakes, but I still hate the big slimy worms.’’

‘‘Me, too.’’ As she walked, she tucked her hands behind her back. Not that she expected him to make a grab for her, but he was tall, and his broad shoulders made her feel crowded on the path.

The hotel came into sight, and Rick said, ‘‘You were telling me about tomorrow night.’’

‘‘No, I wasn’t.’’

‘‘Come on,’’ he coaxed. ‘‘I won’t tell. It’s the last night, so it must be the grand finale. What have you got planned?’’

It was so charming to have a man who was actually interested in what she did. ‘‘There’ll be a buffet in the afternoon, a ball in the evening, and another buffet at midnight. Then everyone leaves the next day, we have a week of regular guests, and it all starts again.’’

‘‘We’re going to have a ball? So there’ll be ballroom dancing? With a live band?’’

‘‘They’re local, called Good Red Rock, and they play songs from the last six decades.’’

‘‘I like to dance.’’

‘‘Really?’’ She raised her brows in disbelief.

‘‘Yep. Women will do anything for a guy who knows how to dance.’’

He made her want to giggle.
‘‘Anything?’’

‘‘Trust me.’’

‘‘So you don’t really like to dance; you merely like to reap the rewards.’’ To her amazement she realized she was flirting. Lightly flirting. With a guy who had sort of reminded her of Warlord.

Maybe this was a sign that she was healing from the horrors of that time in the Himalayas.

‘‘Well . . . yeah. Do I sound like a sinner?’’

He seemed so amused, she didn’t stop to examine the words for hidden meaning. ‘‘You sound like a very smart man to me.’’

‘‘So, my evil plan is working. Tomorrow night would you dance with me?’’

‘‘Yes . . . but for no more reason than the pleasure of the dance. There’ll be no
anything
between us.’’

‘‘Fair enough. Because by tomorrow night I’ll have entranced you enough for
anything
.’’

She snorted softly. ‘‘You can hope.’’

‘‘I do.’’ He smiled at her, an open smile, and something inside her relaxed.

Surely if he were Warlord he wouldn’t expose his face so utterly. Surely if he were Warlord she wouldn’t feel so lighthearted. ‘‘They say when a man dances with a woman, all his secrets are revealed.’’

‘‘In that case . . . I’d better try to get more interesting fast.’’

‘‘You don’t think you’re interesting?’’

‘‘I do think I’m interesting.’’ He stopped.

She stopped, too, and looked up at him.

He tapped her nose like an admonishing older brother. ‘‘But I’m a computer nerd. I think binary numbers are interesting.’’

She laughed aloud, and enjoyed the sensation of his hand as he cupped her cheek and rubbed the high point of the bone with his thumb. ‘‘Why does a computer nerd know how to dance?’’

‘‘My parents are immigrants. Dancing is required.’’

She spoke without thought. ‘‘Then I will enjoy myself in your arms.’’

Softly he said, ‘‘That would be the best
anything
you could give me.’’